Risk
by derrx004
Summary: Johnny Madrid in his early days, trying to make a name for himself
1. Chapter 1

Risk

By Doc

Part One

Johnny grabbed the pitch fork and stabbed a pile of wet straw. Somebody, probably the boss, had moved the horses into the corral and filled the trough with water, but the stalls looked—and smelled—like they hadn't been cleaned in a week.

Which was about how long he'd been in jail.

Swallowing a groan, he tossed the mess into the wheelbarrow. He wasn't sure how long he'd hold up. At least there was a slimy bucket of water in the next stall; no dipper, but he could dunk his cupped hands in and drink that way. It helped a little.

Even though he didn't fill the wheelbarrow anywhere near as full as usual, it was still a struggle to roll it to the manure pile behind the barn. He stopped to catch his breath before he upended it.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

Johnny looked around, and the boss whistled. "That's quite a shiner you got there, boy."

"Yeah." Pride kicked in; Johnny strong-armed the contents of the barrow into the pile.

"So what are you doing here?"

Johnny licked his lips. "Workin'."

The livery owner shook his head. "You don't work here anymore. I can't use a boy who don't show up."

"Look, Mr. Jessop, I'd have been here if I could." Johnny kept his head down. _I can't lose this job. I can't lose this one._

"That don't feed the stock and you know it."

Nodding made his head throb, but he did it anyway. "I know. They wouldn't let me send word."

"You in jail all this time?"

"Just got out."

"Looks like they worked you over pretty good."

Was there a hint of sympathy in the man's voice? Jessop blew out a bunch of air. "Up to now you been real reliable. But I just can't have it."

"I know. I know. But honest, I need this job." Johnny kicked at some horse shit that had fallen out of the barrow.

The boss peered closely at him. "I don't hear you say it won't happen again."

Johnny's temper flared. He raised his chin to meet the man's eyes straight on. "It was a fair fight. I didn't go looking for it, but I won't run if someone brings it to me."

"Now, see, that's the trouble, son. Kids like you always say that. It's gonna get you killed someday, you know that, don't ya?" Mr. Jessop reached into his vest pocket, pulled out a coin, and flipped it to Johnny. "Here. You earned this last week when you still worked here. Now get out."

Damn it. Damn it all to hell. Johnny caught the coin and stared at it, wondering if there was anything he could say to change the man's mind.

Nope. He wouldn't beg. Screw Jessop. He spat on the ground and walked away.

҉҉҉҉҉

Jessop's coin bought him a couple shots of rye on the Mexican side of town, and those shots of rye snagged him the free lunch. Pickled eggs, sliced beef, onions, salted peanuts, celery—Johnny loaded it all on his plate, skipping anything he couldn't put a name to.

On his second trip the barman, balancing a tray of on his arm, sniffed. "You got a hollow leg, there, boy? Damned if I can't figure out where you're putting it all." Johnny studied the new dishes the man set on the board. When he put more meat and pickles on his plate, the fellow motioned with his elbow. "Try the oysters."

"Which ones are oysters?"

The bartender pointed to a pan of something coated in a batter and fried in butter. Johnny scooped up a couple and added them to his plate. One careful bite and he was sold; he added a spoonful more.

"A feller might think you don't know where your next meal is comin' from." The barkeep grinned on his way back to the kitchen.

And wasn't that the truth. Johnny ate until he was fit to bust. Then he took the change from his drinks and headed for the faro game in the back.

He hit on his very first round; suddenly he didn't hurt so bad. Johnny moved his chips to a different card for the next round, and almost whooped when he won again. He'd doubled his money. Maybe his luck was about to change.

But when he glanced across the faro table he recognized the guys who'd beat him up last night—the big guy who'd knocked him against the bars and the little shit in the adjoining cell who managed to grab hold of his wrists behind his back, through the bars. Johnny had pulled his knees up to kick the big guy where it counted, but that only made him mad. By the time the deputy showed up and moved the bastard to another cell, Johnny lay in a heap on the floor.

Johnny pulled his hat back on and tugged the brim as low as he could. He wasn't sure why they'd targeted him last night, but he could do without a repeat performance. He tried to be invisible when he reached out to move his chips to his new bet.

Except the dealer turned the next two cards before he did and he lost it all.

When things go to hell, move to another town; maybe his mama had been on to something. Johnny used to hate moving, but now it seemed to be the best solution to a bad situation. But god, he hated walking. His ribs and his black eye throbbed with every step. The burlap bag he kept his gear in scratched where it rubbed against his arm; the afternoon sun was already heading for the mountains; and he was a good four miles from the next town. He'd be sleeping on the ground tonight.

Or maybe not. The clippity clop of little hooves sounded behind him just before a donkey trotted by, pulling a cart driven by a shriveled up old man. Johnny waved him down.

"Hola, señor. Any chance I can catch a lift?"

The old man stared at him, stone-faced, while the glare he got from the donkey made him want to apologize to it. Finally the old man nodded.

"Gracias, amigo. Muchas gracias." Johnny hopped into the cart as the driver slapped the donkey with a stick. The donkey tossed his head in a definite "fuck you" that made Johnny smile.

An hour or so later he hopped off the cart with an "oof" and waved his thanks to the driver. The old man hadn't said a word on the journey, but he raised his stick in salute and continued on his way.

҉҉҉҉҉

Johnny walked a few blocks, working the soreness out of his muscles, before he found the bars and bawdy houses. Since he started hiring his gun—nearly a whole year, now—his best leads came from whores and bartenders. But how could he approach a barkeep when he couldn't even buy himself a beer? And he sure as hell couldn't afford a whore.

So, what did he have to lose? Squaring his shoulders, he pushed into the first saloon he came to. He stood inside the door checking the men drinking and playing cards; then he walked up to the bar with as much of a swagger as he could manage. The gringo bartender raised his eyebrows high and planted his hands on the bar.

"What happened to you?"

Damn the black eye. Kind of hard to present yourself as a gunfighter when your eye was nearly swollen shut.

"I walked into a door. Listen, I'm looking for the man interested in hiring my gun. I'm Johnny Madrid."

No one answered, but the man behind the bar straightened up.

"It was that fella who lives near the edge of town, you know the one who's been having some trouble lately." Shooting in the dark now, Johnny boy. Nothing to lose.

The bartender's mouth twitched a little. "You mean Lester?"

Bullseye. "Yeah, that's the guy. Lester. He been asking for me?"

The barkeeper's eyes narrowed. "No. Lester drinks at the Water Hole."

Johnny snapped his fingers. "That's the place. The Water Hole. Sorry to bother you. Thank you kindly." He tried to look like he knew where he was going as he walked out.

The late afternoon streets were packed with wagons and horses. The general stores advertised picks and shovels. There was more than one land office, and the biggest building on the main street was topped with a huge sign that bent around the corner. The side Johnny was on read "…ing Company Store". The other side was the beginning of the sign. "Butterick Min…." So this was a mining town, and Butterick Mining Company was the big dog.

Working in a mine had always been Johnny's idea of hell. His stepfather had done some mining when he was young, and his stories of days spent digging underground convinced Johnny he could never work in a mine. Neither could Papa, it turned out. He quit mining for farming.

Johnny finally had to ask where The Water Hole was. Turns out he'd walked past it once without seeing it there on the edge of town. It was nothing but a hole in the wall—a cave carved into wall of rock, with the name scratched above it, hardly visible. There wasn't a door, just a matted, smelly buffalo hide hanging in an opening.

Johnny hesitated to touch the pelt, but he moved it aside and stepped in. He had to wait a while for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. What little light there was came from flickering oil lamps on tables lined up against the far wall.

No one was there except three men flicking cards into an upturned hat. They'd moved the lantern to make room for the hat, so it was hard to make out their faces. The man closest to Johnny sported a mustache with the ends waxed up in a twirl. He was fleshier than the others, looked older than them and less like a working man. They all stared at Johnny without missing a toss of their cards.

"Any of you gents name of Lester?"

The snap of the cards stopped. The man with the mustache pushed his chair back a little. "Who wants to know?"

"I do."

Johnny paused to make his next words to count, but Mustache plowed over him. "What happened to your eye?"

"Ran into a door." Damn Mustache for ruining his big announcement. "I asked about Lester. I heard he was looking to hire a gun. I'm Johnny Madrid."

Mustache sniffed. "Lester's hiring guns now?"

"Maybe. You know where I can find him?"

Mustache's eyes narrowed into a hard, knowing look. The clicking sound Johnny heard might have been the hammer of a gun being cocked under the table.

Johnny stepped back, raising his hands away from his own gun. "Easy, mister. I just asked a question."

Mustache stood up and limped out from behind the table, pistol in hand. "Don't you know who I am, boy?"

Shaking his head, Johnny backed up all the way to the opening in the wall, thinking he'd be lucky to get out of this in one piece.

"I'm one of the men Lester is disputing with. And if you're the best he can do for a gunfighter, I reckon we've got nothin' to worry about."

One of the other fellas snickered. "Good one, Junior."

Johnny summoned up a soft laugh. "Well, I guess you're entitled to your opinion."

He reached behind him with his left hand, catching the buffalo hide to lift it on his way out. Out of the corner of his eye he caught Junior turning back to his friends at the table, smirking and lowering his gun. In that heartbeat Johnny spun as he pulled his own Colt, shot the hat full of cards off the table, and holstered his weapon before the men had time to react.

"Wanna reconsider?" Johnny tried not to grin, but he couldn't help it. Cards fluttered down over the floor. When one caught in the bartender's hair he slapped it away, cursing.

Junior and his friends gaped. "Damn, boy, that was stupid." Junior limped over to the foot of the bar to pick up the hat. He waggled his finger through the bullet hole.

"This is my ten-dollar hat. You damn well better have ten bucks to replace it, 'cause if you don't I'm gonna take it out of your hide."

Ten dollars? What was a loser named Junior doing with a ten-dollar hat? Then again, as broke as Johnny was it might as well have been a hundred.

Johnny stood up straight. "No, friend, I don't have it just now. But I came to this town for a job, and since I haven't found Lester yet, I can work for you in this fracas. First two days will cover the ten dollars for the hat. After that we can talk."

Junior laughed. "You got more guts than brains, and that's the truth. You owe me ten dollars, so you go do whatever you got to do to come up with the money." He leaned unsteadily toward Johnny and jabbed a finger in the air. "You've got til tomorrow, at noon, right here. And if you're not here with the money, like I said…I'll take it out of your hide. I know everybody in this town, and there's nowhere for you to run. Now get out of my sight."

Junior turned away, and Johnny backed out of the bar, cursing to himself. Stop showing off, Madrid. Now some pendejo named Junior is watching everything you do because of a ten-dollar hat.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

Risk

By Doc

Part Two

Daylight faded; Johnny wandered past peeling store fronts, wondering how he could come up with ten bucks, quick. Even if he found Lester tonight and got hired on right now, he wouldn't have ten dollars in his pocket by noon tomorrow. Nothing he carried with him was worth more than a few pennies.…

Should he steal something to pawn? Naw; for sure he'd get caught. Besides, he'd just gotten out of the pokey. Didn't want to go back so soon. Pick someone's pocket? He was good at that, but he kinda left that behind when he became a gunfighter. He kicked at a clump of dirt. The pain when he twisted made him wish he hadn't.

It might be easier to think if he didn't hurt so bad. Damn. He'd managed to stay one job ahead of being broke, until now.

A hint of evening coolness passed over him. He shuddered a little as he studied the plate glass window in front of him. Big fancy gold letters taunted him to "Buy, Sell, Trade". Rubbing his hand over his face, he waited for a better idea than the one that came to mind first.

Nope, nothing. He heaved a big sigh and pushed the door open.

The store was clean—a switch from the usual pawnshop. There were some other folks looking around and two burly men in collars and ties watching him, squinty-eyed. Johnny made for the gun cabinet and pretended to be looking at pistols. His Colt weighed heavy on his thigh, nestled in the holster he'd softened up just right. The rig was a part of him now. It was well used, and he kept it in good shape.

Someone cleared his throat and Johnny looked up.

"I'm closing soon. You want me to show you something?" The man behind the counter looked kindly with his silver hair and pressed apron. Johnny knew better.

Slowly, reluctantly, he unbuckled the rig and handed it across the top of the cabinet. He'd taken the Colt off a dead man in a bar and primed it into a good working gun. He'd made the gun belt himself from scraps he'd stumbled across working in liveries. The pawnbroker took it casually and turned it around once.

"Eight."

Johnny reached to grab it back. "I was hoping to hear a bigger number."

The fellow didn't let go. "Hope all you like. The offer is eight."

Johnny chewed his lip, considering. "Make it twelve fifty." Then he'd have enough to eat something tonight, maybe find a place to sleep that didn't include livestock.

"I tell you what. I'll give you ten."

That would cover the hat. Johnny started to nod. "Interest?"

"Fifteen percent. Thirty days."

"Well now, that's pretty steep, isn't it?"

"Take it or leave it."

The money would clear him with Junior, and he'd still have a month to find work. He could get the rig back as soon as he raised the money. He tried not to think about the kind of work he'd have to find, or how he'd manage to earn ten dollars, plus interest, in just a month without his gun.

Still, it was the best deal he was going to get. Hell, it was the only deal he was going to get.

He opened his mouth to say yes but blood started rushing in his ears. The edge of his vision turned dark. He spread his hands on the glass countertop to stop the world spinning. Words wouldn't come.

What the hell was he doing? He earned his living with his gun. Hocking the tools of his trade made no sense, no sense at all. It was this gun that got him off the starving streets he lived in after his mama died. Without it he wasn't Johnny Madrid. Without it he was just Johnny, the no-account half breed.

Jesus, maybe Junior was right. Maybe he did have more guts than brains. Imagine strolling down the street, flush with ten dollars, and hearing a challenge from behind. What good would that money do him if he was dead?

Johnny's hand nearly shook as he grabbed his rig back. He strapped it on as fast as he could. "I changed my mind."

The proprietor mocked him with a grin. "I can't go any higher."

"I don't expect you to."

He stumbled out of the store in a hurry, shook up by what he'd nearly done. What kind of a gunfighter pawns his gun? Johnny dropped onto a bench next door to the pawn shop and rested his head in his hands.

What now? He still needed ten dollars by noon tomorrow.

Running away was looking pretty good. Who would know?

He would.

And so would Junior with the mustache. Word would get out that Johnny Madrid had run away from a ten-dollar debt. If that wasn't a reputation killer, nothing was. He shouldn't have given his name.

It was fully dark now. His stomach growled. How had he let himself get flat broke? Where could he find something to eat? He was going to have to sleep on the bare ground tonight. Maybe he should get arrested. At least there'd be a cot. And food.

As he sat there feeling sorry for himself, the quiet sounds of a town turning in for the night shattered. A knot of brawling cowboys spilled through the broken window of a saloon a couple doors down. More men ran out, piled on to roll in the dirt. They blocked the boardwalk and part of the street.

Johnny stood up to move away from the fighting, but before he took a step, a crazy idea grabbed him. Switching direction he moved toward the action. Ignoring his pain, he plowed into the fight. He didn't bother to figure who was fighting who; he ducked and hit out whenever someone was close. Face to face with a red-headed cowboy, he jabbed a quick right to the guy's jaw. The stranger went to his knees and couldn't find the ground to stand back up. Johnny grinned at the fellow's unfocused eyes as he reached out to help him to his feet.

"Sorry, friend. Didn't see it was you. I didn't mean to hit you." As he pulled him up Johnny slipped his hand into the guy's jacket pocket. Yep, there was a money clip. Johnny palmed it and dropped it into his own pocket before he helped his new friend back into the bar. The brouhaha was dying down, and the fighters were regrouping. Someone saw him supporting the red-head and waved him over.

"I didn't know it was him when I hit him. Here, you can have him back." With an ingratiating smile Johnny handed the red-head over to his friends; then he faded into the confusion of chairs and tables being turned upright. By the time he was outside again, the evening was quiet.

Whistling quietly, he strolled away from the saloon. He stopped in the light of the lantern hanging outside an alley to see how much money he had. Pretending to light a smoke, he counted thirteen dollars.

Hot dang! He felt like the richest man in town.

Johnny nestled in the dingy sheets of a lumpy hotel bed, blinking at the sun high enough to brighten the room. He'd slept long and hard, and it had done him good. The face staring back at him through the cloud in the mirror still had a bruised eye, but the swelling was down. His ribs weren't near as sore as they had been yesterday. He had enough time and money for a hot bath and a big lunch, and 'round about noon he headed back to the Water Hole.

Today he found the place right away. Johnny pushed aside the buffalo hide. The room was no brighter, and the only man inside was the bartender.

"I was here yesterday."

The barkeep nodded, his eyes hooded. "Yup."

Johnny smiled an innocent smile. "Got myself in a pickle, I guess."

"I guess."

"When do you expect my friend with the mustache today?"

"Friend, huh? You got a funny idea of friendship, boy."

Johnny bit back a smart remark. "Yeah, he sure got the better of me, didn't he? Who is he? Junior…"

The bartender nodded slowly. "Butterick. Junior's daddy owns the mine."

Oh, shit. What was a Butterick doing drinking in a dive like this?

"You pay your debt to Junior Butterick and get the hell out of town. That way you might live to see next week." A light flickered in the barkeep's eyes. "You know, you could leave that ten bucks with me. I'll see that Junior gets it, and you can get a head start out of here."

Johnny laughed. "Well, thanks, but I think I'll pass. What time do you figure on Junior Butterick coming back today?"

"Dunno."

Johnny sucked in some air, looked around the room, and wondered how long Junior would keep him waiting. "I'll just have a seat, barkeep. Bring me a beer when you get the time." He flipped a nickel on the bar and took a seat to watch the door.

The beer didn't last long. A few drinkers came and went. No one talked much. There was no free lunch in the Water Hole, that was for sure. The most interesting thing in the room was the water seeping down the wall. It didn't come in from anywhere special—just showed up about a foot from the ceiling as a damp spot that got wider as it got lower. Every now and then the dampness ran together to form a little drop, and the drop would wiggle its way down the stone wall. Sometimes it ran into another drop from a different damp spot to make a bigger drop that finally fell off the wall where a piece of rock stuck out far enough to act like a cliff. Johnny watched the drops form and stuck his fingertip on the cliff to keep them from falling off.

It was long past noon. The barman shushed him when he spun the rowels of his spurs just for something to do. Johnny swept his hand around the empty room and glared back. "You gotta be kidding me." But he stopped the noise and started bouncing his legs up and down, trying to relieve the boredom.

Junior Butterick finally showed up. He was alone. He limped past the bar, ignoring the bartender and pretending not to see Johnny, either. Johnny layered his hands one on top of the other and stayed still as Junior made his way to the same table as yesterday. The bartender hurried a bottle and a glass to him.

Junior wore a hat on his head today, a Stetson that had seen better days. His hands shook some when he poured himself a drink. He tossed down a quick shot and poured himself another. Johnny walked over, threw ten dollars on the table, and stood there until Junior looked up.

"You tell whoever asks that Johnny Madrid makes good on his debts."

He turned to leave.

"I'm not done with you yet, Madrid."

The short rope on Johnny's nerves frayed clean away. He spun back around to face Junior. "What the hell do you mean? I played your game. You got your money. We're square."

His hand hovered over his gun. "Unless you want to take it outside? Because I'm more than ready to blow your sorry ass away."

Junior glared at him. "If you'd just shut up I'd tell you about a job."

A trickle of sweat itched its way between Johnny's shoulder blades. "What job?"

"A job. Work You need work, don't you?"

Johnny took a deep breath. He rubbed the back of his neck. "Okay. Go on."

Junior took a slow sip of his drink. "Sandoval Freight over on Camino del Este is looking for guns. The Apache been hitting some ore shipments. The company's so hard up they might hire even you." Junior poured more rye into his glass. "Mention my name." His eyes narrowed. "After that I want nothing to do with you, you got that? We don't know each other."

Junior doing him a favor? Was this a set up? Still, a job was a job…Johnny nodded his thanks and ducked out the door.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

Risk

By Doc

Part Three

The town was bigger and more prosperous than he'd thought last night. 'Course, he was hurting and hungry last night; everything was looking brighter today. Mules pulling wagons clogged the streets. Horses and riders wended their way through the traffic, and men with women on their arms walked down the boardwalks.

When he passed the saloon where he'd lifted the money clip, he peeked inside for a cowboy with red hair. What he would do if he found him he had no idea, but he looked anyway. The place was nearly empty. Johnny spit out a laugh when he saw the name of the bar: "Strike it Rich". He sure had, anyway.

He ended up back at the pawn shop and stepped in to ask directions. There weren't any customers, just two bored clerks in starched aprons. Johnny didn't recognize them from yesterday. One was cleaning the jewelry cases; the other leaned against the ledger stand smoking a cigarillo, knocking his ashes onto the wood plank floor.

Neither one looked up when the bell on the door jingled. Johnny cleared his throat.

The smoker looked at him. "What do you want?" His double chin wobbled when he talked.

"I'm looking for Camino del Este."

"This ain't it."

Oh, a funny man. Johnny smiled even though that flabby face just begged to be punched.

"Yeah, I figured. I'd appreciate it if you could point me in the right direction." He kept the grin on his face and imagined drawing down on the guy.

The man polishing the cases spoke without looking at him. "Take the alley beside the hotel. It'll spit you out right there."

Johnny knew that alley. It was near where he'd counted his money last night. "Thanks."

He lingered a minute at the entrance to the alley; it never hurt to check out a narrow passage before using it. The light from other end was clear and strong. So he picked his way past overflowing trash barrels until he reached Camino del Este.

And he stopped short. He had seen brick roads before, but never like this.

Stretching in front of him were bricks painted in brilliant colors. Yellow and red, green and white, blue and orange…the street shone with them as they reflected the bright sun. He couldn't help staring; he almost hated to walk on them, but everyone else was, so he did, too. He moved slowly, head down, not wanting to miss a thing.

The bricks, irregularly arranged at first, turned into complicated patterns as he went east. When he got close to the square, the patterns exploded into fantastical animals and birds. The pictures were magnificent; the back of his neck prickled in the sun as he walked around admiring the skill of the bricklayers who created such art.

When the colors muted in the coolness of a shadow, he looked up; the offices of Butterick Mining loomed over him.

This had to be the business district of… he still didn't know the name of this place. Adobe buildings painted in hues of orange and pink lined the street; they had names like "Prieto Dry Goods" and "Prieto Assay Offices". He hadn't heard of Prieto before, but here he was.

Next door to the mining offices a wooden "Help Wanted: Loaders and Haulers" sign blocked the boardwalk; its arrow pointed to Sandoval Freight Office. The door was standing open to a small room with a huge desk. The desk dwarfed the little man who sat ;behind a handmade sign that read "Cletus Beauregard". The rest of the desk was empty except for one stack of papers.

"I'm Johnny Madrid. Junior Butterick sent me."

The clerk frowned. "Loaders and haulers, the sign says."

Johnny pursed his lips. "I can read."

The clerk raised his head and took a good look at Johnny. "What happened to your face?"

"Walked into a door."

"Uh huh. How old are you?"

"Eighteen." Johnny had been telling that lie for so long he wondered if he'd gotten to be eighteen and only thought he was lying. No, he was pretty sure he was sixteen. Maybe fifteen. But it was always good to be eighteen.

"Kinda scrawny for a teamster, aren't you?"

"I figured to be security."

"And Junior sent you?" 

Johnny nodded.

"Hmph. Ever been a guard before?"

"Yeah."

The man's eyes narrowed. "You lying to me?"

"Exaggerating, maybe." Johnny's palms were suddenly sweaty. He rubbed them on his trousers.

"Hmph." Cletus Beauregard picked up a piece of paper and scratched some words on it. "Are you any good with that side arm?"

"Yes. And that's no lie."

"Can you shoot a rifle?"

"Yes."

"Ever fired a scatter gun before?"

"Yes."

The clerk quirked his mouth to the side for a long second, then made a few more scratches. When he looked up he locked eyes with Johnny. "You willing to shoot to kill?" 

"Yep." Johnny returned the man's stare without blinking.

"Shooting game is one thing. Shooting a man is another."

"I've shot men before. I'm a gunfighter."

The clerk raised his eyebrows. "You're a kid."

Johnny scowled. "You need my gun or not?"

The clerk spun the paper around. He tapped a line with his pencil. "Sign here."

Johnny didn't take the pencil. "What's the pay?"

"Two fifty a day when you're guarding a shipment. More if Mr. Butterick needs private security. If you stay in the bunkhouse that'll cost you a buck twenty five a week, room and board."

"Where's that?" 

Beauregard pointed his pencil to his left. Johnny figured he meant the bunk house was outside somewhere.

"How do I get to be part of Mr. Butterick's private security?"

"You'd have to ask him."

"How often do shipments go out?"

"Twice a week for sure. Sometimes more."

"Is the cook any good?"

"Beggars can't be choosers, boy." The clerk shoved the paper at Johnny again. This time he signed it.

The bunkhouse was squeezed between the freight office and the loading dock behind it. Johnny avoided bunkhouses as a rule. He hated sleeping around strangers; more than once he'd had to fight to be left alone. But it was dinnertime and he was hungry. He'd check it out, and camp somewhere else if need be.

He stowed his gear under the pad on the first cot to the right. The room held eight beds, three of them had been claimed. It didn't smell too bad as bunkhouses went; once he got to know the other guys—and they got to know him—he'd consider sleeping here.

When he walked into the kitchen, three men at a small table looked up. Nobody said anything. There was no sign of the cook, so Johnny found a skillet on the stove, spooned up what was in it, and pulled up a chair.

One guy moved over a few inches to make more room for him. "I'm Ezekiel." He offered a hand and Johnny shook it. Ezekiel's grip was strong; he seemed likable.

"That's Clint, and that's, uh…" Ezekiel stopped with an embarrassed grin. The third man growled, "Ewell."

"I'm Johnny."

The one called Ewell glared at him. "What happened to your eye?"

Johnny smiled a little. He was real tired of that question, and to his way of thinking his black eye was old news. "What eye?"

No one laughed, but no one asked him again. Johnny nodded his thanks when Ezekiel shoved a tin mug and a pot of coffee his way.

"Guards?" Johnny asked as he poured his coffee.

"Teamsters." Clint wore three layers of jackets with a filthy bandana tied around his neck. The grime on his hands looked permanent. "You?"

"Guard. Guess I'll be riding with one of you."

"If any ore goes out." Ewell burped loudly. "The miners are threatening to strike."

An image of a snake uncoiling, fangs bared, came to Johnny's mind. "What's that mean?"

"It means they're gonna quit working until they get what they want."

Johnny would have asked what the miners wanted, but was glad Ezekiel beat him to it. He always felt better when somebody was as much in the dark as he was.

"The usual, I reckon. More pay, less work, shit like that." Ewell spat on the floor. "Not like they didn't know what they was getting into when they signed on."

Ezekiel looked confused. "But they don't get paid if they don't work. What's the point?"

Clint took over. "The boss don't make any money either. Nothing gets mined so no money comes in."

"So why doesn't Butterick hire other men to work his mines?"

Ewell laughed. "He'll try, but the strikers won't allow it. I expect instead of driving mules, we'll be trying to get those scabs through the strike line while the miners try to stop us."

"Sounds like it could get pretty ugly."

Clint's smile looked mean. "It will. Men have died. Men will die."

Johnny met his eyes, shrugged, and took a bite of his dinner.

The livery stable across the street looked and smelled like a good one. With nothing better to do, Johnny checked out the horses. Gunfighters shouldn't have to catch rides on donkey carts, and he'd wanted a horse for quite a while. A little chestnut in the corral caught his eye. The gelding was underweight, but looked like he had plenty of git up and go. Johnny climbed up on the fence to stroke the horse's nose. He reached in to rub his neck, and found just the right spot on the horse's withers to make him stick out his nose and give a big horse laugh. Feeling like he'd made a friend, Johnny snuck into the back of the barn. A couple armloads of fresh straw as a bed, his rolled up jacket as a pillow, and a slightly used saddle blanket as a cover suited him just fine.

Johnny woke up feeling like a million bucks. He'd slept so well he was almost late for breakfast, and he hardly hurt anywhere. He checked his gear as he walked through the bunkhouse; it was untouched. Clint, Ezekiel, and Ewell were in the kitchen and it tickled him to think they'd been sitting just as he'd left them all night.

He nodded hello but got only a nod from Ezekiel in return. He ate his bacon and eggs and drank his coffee, then headed out to the loading dock hoping for an assignment right away.

No one was in the loading area. The freight office was empty too. He paced around for a few minutes until the little clerk from yesterday appeared.

"Mr. Butterick wants to see you right away, Madrid."

"The other guys are still inside…"

"Just you. He needs personal security and he needs it now."

Johnny sure wouldn't say no to the better pay of Butterick's private security detail. "Yes sir."

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

Risk

By Doc

Part Four

Resting his hand on the butt of his gun, Johnny followed Beauregard through a narrow passage to the back door of Butterick Mining. They walked down a long hallway to the front room; a group of men stared out a big window toward the square. Two were in street clothes. The other five wore brown canvas uniforms with yellow scarves knotted around their necks. Guns and knives shone in their belts. The bandoliers criss-crossing their backs were heavy with ammunition.

"Here he is," Beauregard announced.

The civilians turned toward him. The clerk nodded and scurried away.

Johnny recognized Junior right away, even dressed like a businessman. Must have been Junior who pulled the string to get him called for private security. But why?

The guy beside Junior had to be his old man. He looked like Junior, down to the waxed handlebar mustache, only twenty years fatter and grayer.

Johnny cleared his throat and stuck his hand out. "I'm Johnny Madrid, Mr. Butterick."

The older Butterick gave a sharp nod without really looking at Johnny, and turned back to the window. Part embarrassed and part mad, Johnny dropped his hand. There better be something really interesting outside that big window.

Junior tapped the shoulder of the shortest man in uniform. "Corporal."

The corporal turned around while Junior shook a finger at Johnny. "Corporal Jara gives the orders. You follow them."

"Okay."

Orders might come in handy, since Johnny didn't have a clue what was going on. Why did a rich mine owner need private soldiers? Johnny hadn't understood what Clint was saying about getting 'scabs across a strike line' but he'd bet these guys had something to do with that.

Johnny knew the kind of men who wore military uniforms. He didn't trust any of them.

Jara focused beady eyes on Johnny. "I'm told you can shoot." His teeth were pointy and yellow.

Johnny bit back a smart remark. He was a professional now and he'd better act like it, even if orders were coming from a guy with a face like a rat.

"Yeah, I can shoot."

Jara nodded, but before he said anything else Butterick senior led them out the front door. They lined up, Jara and Johnny to the left of the Buttericks while the other uniforms stood to the right. An overhang provided enough shade to cool the day.

Folks in the square craned their necks toward the far west end of the street. Beyond the shiny bricks, a cloud of dust rose. Through it marched a mass of men dressed in working clothes. Shoulder to shoulder they filled the street, silent except for their footsteps. Some wore hats but most were bareheaded; none were armed.

By the time the marchers stopped at the fountain, the city folks had disappeared. Johnny waited in the shade with the Buttericks and their soldiers. The marchers stood in the heat of the sun. An air of uneasiness filled the square.

A gringo in a town suit and a bowler hat, taller than most of the workers, moved up through the ranks. He was followed by a stout Mexican old enough to be somebody's grandfather. Both men wore an air of authority. The marchers moved to let them through, then closed together again. The gringo's thick, dark beard made it hard for Johnny to judge his age.

Once clear of the marchers the bearded gringo stood in front of them, alone except for the Mexican one step behind him. He raised his chin and stared at the elder Butterick like he expected the answer to a question.

"What is it you want, Lester?" Junior shouted.

Lester, huh? So that was the man disputing with Junior and his family. Not the usual dispute over water rights or fences, but something to do with mining. Lester was one of the big dogs in the fight. Instinct told Johnny to slide over a few steps to have a clear shot at him. Corporal Jara caught the motion; his eyes narrowed. Johnny winked and stayed where he was.

Lester spoke loudly to Junior's old man. "By the authority of the Miners Trade Union of the Territory of Sonoma, the employees of Butterick Mining Company cease work as of right now. We will resume only when you meet our demands." Some of the men behind him nodded and squared their shoulders.

Butterick Sr. drew a deep breath before he stepped off the boardwalk into the street. He stopped ten paces from Lester like a gunfighter ready to dance. When he reached into his jacket pocket Johnny put his hand on his gun, but Butterick didn't draw a weapon. Instead he pulled out a piece of paper and made a show of looking past Lester to the miners, sweating on the hot bricks of the Camino del Este. Tense faces stared back.

Butterick shook open the paper with a flourish, and his gravelly voice carried over the square. "Let me see here…a ten per cent increase in each man's hourly wage."

He looked up from the paper. "No."

Johnny heard the sneer in his voice.

"Wages to be paid in dollars, not scrip. Again, no."

The miners remained silent.

"And last, one ten minute work-break every four hours." With that, Butterick spat on the ground.

Lifting the paper high, he slowly ripped it in half, then in half again. He let the pieces flutter from his fingers.

"My answer is no. No to all of your demands, and most particularly, no to the idea that any action on your part can affect my running of Butterick Mining. Go back to work before I fire every last man of you." He stalked back to the shade of the boardwalk, shaking his head.

Lester's face was grim as he turned to face the miners. The burly older man touched his shoulder, and he and Lester spoke quietly for a moment. No one broke ranks. Then Lester raised his hand.

Johnny tensed.

The miners turned around and sat down.

They turned their backs to the offices of Butterick Mining and to the armed men on the boardwalk. Without any fuss they sat down where they were, right there on the decorated street of Camino del Este. Only Lester stayed on his feet facing them. His hands were at his sides. His fingers tightened into fists. They unclenched, then tightened again.

Townspeople hiding in the shadows snickered; Johnny smiled and snuck a look at Butterick. The man was turning red as he stared at row after row of men sitting on their butts, facing away from him.

"This is over. Go back to work! Now!"

Nothing happened. Not one man even looked back over his shoulder. Johnny admired their calm courage. He could picture his stepfather in his mining days, sitting there with the rest of them…trying for something better but taking whatever came his way.

The Buttericks huddled with Corporal Jara. For an instant Johnny's eyes met Lester's; the bearded face was unreadable. Jara nodded sharply more than once, and when Butterick raised his head Jara moved back into position beside Johnny.

"Ready!"

Johnny jumped at Jara's command.

Lester turned his back to them but remained standing. Jara and his men lifted their rifles. Johnny drew his Colt, unsure of what he was supposed to do.

"Aim!"

The soldiers sighted along their rifles at the backs of the miners. Johnny's heart raced; he felt the air quit moving, and he was afraid to breathe. Shooting the striking miners now would be murder, plain and simple.

"Boy," Jara hissed. "You take Lester."

Johnny shook his head.

"That's an order."

"No," Johnny said under his breath. He looked over the sea of men on the colorful bricks and spoke more loudly. "No, I won't." He slipped his gun back into his holster.

Jara's nostrils flared. Muttering a curse he moved toward Johnny, but Johnny was already charging. He knocked Jara's rifle aside and barreled into the man with a force that carried them off the boardwalk. Johnny scrabbled on the bricks, his hands tangled somehow in Jara's coat. He freed up his fists and drew his arm back to punch that rat face. Somebody grabbed his elbow. Johnny tried to jerk free as Jara landed a glancing blow to his mouth.

"What the hell are you doing, boy?" Junior held his arm in a vice-like grip.

What the hell _was_ he was doing? Right now he was fighting, and it was a damned sight better than shooting folks in the back.

Junior pulled him off Jara and threw him on the bricks. Johnny rolled with the motion until he came up against someone's canvas-covered leg. He grabbed it with both hands to pull himself up. When he got to a knee he yanked it, hard. It bent fast and crashed its owner to the bricks beside him.

Johnny tried to crawl over the guy, but a rifle butt to his neck knocked him flat. More blows struck his back and shoulders, and he crawled to get away.

Someone kicked him in the gut.

Goddamn, that hurt. Tears ran down his face as he gasped for air. He curled up into a ball, tasting brick dust and bile. Don't puke. Don't pass out. Don't puke.

He hoped whatever came next wouldn't hurt too bad.

But nothing came next.

Triumphant shouts filled his ears. He wanted to stay curled up, but people grabbed his arms and raised him to a sitting position. He opened his eyes and the world tilted; he slammed them shut. He panted and tried again. Lester's bearded face came into focus. He crouched beside Johnny with a steadying arm around his shoulders.

"I have to tell you, boy: that was about as stupid a move as I've ever seen."

Then a smile broke through the beard. "I'm grateful for it."

Johnny blinked. The urge to puke had subsided, but damn—he hurt everywhere he'd already been hurt, and then some. "What happened?"

"You took down the corporal. They were beating the piss out of you, so we ran at them, and then Butterick and his goons went back inside."

"They didn't shoot anybody?"

Lester shook his head.

Johnny couldn't make any sense out of any of it. The miners milled around, relieved smiles on their faces. Lester's right hand man, the big Mexican, was there beside him. The boardwalk was empty. Every window shade was drawn at the mining office.

Lester got to his feet and held out a hand. Johnny grasped it and let himself be pulled up. It was a good thing Lester didn't let go right away or he would have hit the bricks again. Once he was square on his feet Johnny shrugged off Lester's support, but Lester stuck his hand back out. "I'm the trade union representative. Perceval Lester."

"Johnny Madrid."

Lester nodded his head, like he already knew, and Johnny shook hands with him. Then Lester swept his arm toward the Mexican still at his side. "This is Señor Bartholomew. He leads the miners." Bartholomew shook Johnny's hand with surprising warmth.

After the handshake, Johnny drew in a careful breath. Nothing screamed at him, so he was pretty sure nothing was broken. Damn—when were folks gonna quit beating on him? He looked around at the miners talking and drifting back down Camino del Este, like nothing had happened. The tension of the day was gone.

Johnny blinked a few times and swiped at his chin to get the grit off it. Swatting the dust off his trousers, he coughed a time or two. "Well, looks like I've changed sides. What happens now?"

"Damned if I know." Close up like this, Lester's eyes were tired, his face lined. He looked like a man with a lot on his mind.

Johnny breathed in as big as he dared. "One thing for sure."

"What's that?"

"I'm not gonna get paid for today."

Bartholomew finally smiled.

Lester chuckled. "You looking for work, son?"

Wasn't he always? "Thanks, but I'm no miner."

Bartholomew regarded him seriously. "No one is, until he has to be."

"Yeah, I guess you're right."

Lester focused more closely on Johnny's face. "If you're not a miner, what are you?"

Johnny stood a little straighter. "I sell my gun some."

Bartholomew snorted, but Lester nodded. "Uh-huh. I don't remember seeing you in town before."

"Just got in a couple days ago."

"Did Abel Butterick send for you?"

Johnny wasn't sure if Abel was Junior's proper name, or the name of the old man. Didn't matter either way. "Nope."

"So how did you end up working with them?"

"Now that's a long story." Johnny rubbed his hand over his face, wincing. There was blood on his palm when he brought his hand down.

Lester glanced around. "Let's get out of the sun and talk. I at least owe you a drink after what you did."

"I'll leave you to it, then." Bartholomew cupped his hand on Lester's shoulder, nodded at Johnny, and headed west with his miners.

Johnny walked with Lester, looking forward to something to rinse the dust out of his mouth.

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

Risk

By Doc

Part Five

Every man they passed had to shake Johnny's hand and pound Lester on the back, so it took a while to make their way to the cantina. Lester led Johnny through the main eating room to a patio out back. An awning shaded a few iron tables and chairs; well-watered flowers grew over the rims of the barrels lining the edge of the brick floor. After the colors and shine of the brick of the street, regular bricks looked dull, dusty.

Lester waved Johnny into a seat and sat down across from him. When Lester took off his hat, his thinning hair glinted red in the sun. The skin on his head was red, too. He touched it lightly with his fingertips and settled his hat back on his head. A serving girl swished by with two glasses of lemonade and a plate of bread for them. Johnny looked up to see her smiling at him. When he smiled back something split on his lip. He covered the drying blood with a hunk of bread from the plate, and the girl sashayed off, nose wrinkled.

Lester took a big swig of lemonade. "I saw you hit your lip on Jara's fist. What happened to your eye?"

Johnny fingered the wetness on the outside of lemonade glass. He rubbed the cool water on his lip, then wiped it away with his bandana. "Walked into a door."

Lester smiled and shook his head. "Sure."

Johnny sampled the lemonade. It was too sweet for his taste. He thought Lester was going to buy him a proper drink. He'd hoped so, anyway.

Lester grabbed a piece of bread and took a bite, but he mostly waved it around while he talked. "I'd like to hear the story of how you came to be standing with the Buttericks and their soldiers."

Junior said not to let on that they knew each other. Well, too bad. Neither of the Buttericks rated too high in Johnny's book just now, and they didn't deserve his silence.

"I was looking for a job, that's all. Someone gave me your name, Mr. Lester. I was asking around for you, and I came across Junior. We talked until he made a remark questioning my trade. So I put a bullet through his hat."

"Was he wearing it at the time?" Lester looked up with a little smile.

"Nope. Wouldn't've made any difference." Johnny smiled back. Then he skipped ahead—Lester didn't need to know about the ten dollars. "Next day he told me about a job guarding ore shipments, and I took it. This morning the office man had me come in to work for Mr. Butterick's private security. You saw the rest."

Lester looked down at the table, no smile left on his face. "You looked right at me."

"Uh-huh." Johnny sipped more lemonade.

"Would you have killed me?" Lester looked up.

Johnny met his gaze. "That's what I get paid for." He leaned back in his chair, wincing when his shoulder touched the metal. New bruises for sure. He wondered what his belly looked like. "But I don't shoot anyone in the back."

Where was this was going? He'd probably said too much already. His fingers tapped the butt of his Colt.

"Why'd you say no?"

Looking back, he wondered the same thing. Refusing a direct order from a man in a uniform wasn't very smart. Johnny couldn't honestly say he decided to defy orders; he just did it.

"Wasn't right." He dropped his eyes.

"It took guts to say no, Johnny."

"Yeah, well, more guts than brains, or so I've been told." He and Lester both snorted a little.

"I think you should know you made a formidable enemy today. That corporal you shoved is a nasty piece of work."

Johnny straightened up to lean his elbows on the table. "Yeah?"

"Jara's been pretty quick to work my miners over. I don't know if Butterick puts him up to it, but he sure doesn't stop him. "

"How quick is Jara to go to his gun?"

Lester considered his answer. "Today was the first time I've seen him ready to shoot."

"Hmm."

As Johnny drained the last of his lemonade, Lester pulled a cigar case from his shirt pocket. Choosing one, he offered the case to Johnny. Johnny shook his head. Lester clenched the Cuban between his teeth and puffed it to life. When Lester blew out the aromatic smoke, Johnny swallowed a catch in his throat. It reminded him of his stepfather. He'd been thinking about him a lot in this town. What would papa think of how Johnny was making his way in the world?

After a few good puffs, Lester looked at Johnny straight on.

"Johnny, if you're willing to use that gun of yours, I'm thinking I'd like it to be for our side."

"Meaning…?"

"Have you ever hired your gun to outright kill a man?"

Not exactly. Not yet, anyway. But that's what hired guns did. "I've killed a man or two."

One killing had been an accident. One had been a kid he'd run with who attacked him with a knife. Neither one set well with him, but a man did what he had to do.

"How would I go about hiring you to kill Corporal Jara?" A sheen of sweat broke out on Lester's forehead, but his voice was steady.

His heart pounded, but Johnny smiled the smile he'd been practicing, his working smile. "You give me an advance, I take care of the job, you give me the rest, and I'm gone."

A silence settled heavily between them. Lester stroked his beard. Johnny waited.

"Let's do it."

Johnny held up a hand. "Not so fast. You sure you want a killing? I could just hurt him, you know."

"Why wouldn't I want to remove the threat completely?"

Johnny shrugged. "It don't matter to me. Except killing'll cost you more."

Lester frowned. "You taking the job?"

"Maybe." Johnny sat back and folded his hands in his lap; his palms were sweating. "We haven't discussed my fee."

"I'll pay you the going rate."

Johnny flashed a quick smile. "Then things are lookin' up. What is the going rate around here?"

Lester sighed. "I have no idea. What's a man's life worth?"

It didn't seem like he really wanted Johnny to answer that one.

Finally, Lester shook himself. "How does twenty dollars sound?"

Better than Johnny had hoped, but he never took the first offer. "A ten dollar advance, and twenty five when the job is done." Brave words for a guy who rode into town on a donkey cart.

Lester didn't look at Johnny. "I don't know. That's pretty steep."

"Well, Mr. Lester, I'm pretty good." Johnny gazed steadily at Lester until he looked up. Lester was the first to look away.

After another few puffs of the cigar, Lester put his hand out, and they shook on it.

Johnny got to his feet and lingered where he stood. Lester looked at him blankly.

"My advance?"

Lester reached back into a pocket and pulled out a billfold. He counted out ten dollars. Johnny folded them and pushed the wad inside his belt. "Thank you, Mr. Lester. I'll find you when the job's done."

Lester nodded, already lost in his own thoughts. He didn't look up, and Johnny walked away.

Johnny headed to the rough side of town to find a cheap whorehouse, the kind where his black eye and bruises wouldn't matter. He stopped in his tracks when he realized he'd left his gear in the freight company's bunk house. Well, shoot. It might be tricky to get it back. He turned north toward Camino del Este, trying to come up with a plan to avoid anyone who worked for Butterick.

At least it wasn't dinner time; the other men should be out working. The cook might be there, but if Johnny timed it right he should be able to waltz right in, grab the bag, and waltz back out again. As he got close to the freight office he pulled his hat as low over his eyes as he could. He tried to keep to the shadows of the surrounding buildings. He wished he had a different shirt.

From the far corner of the bunkhouse he heard the cook rattling around in the kitchen. He slunk under the small window and stopped just before rounding the corner nearest the main door. Horse sounds drifted in from the corral next door. Could he make it in without being seen? The bunkhouse door opened and closed a time or two.

Busier than he'd hoped. He straightened up, readjusted the brim of his hat even lower, and walked with a confident air around the corner.

Was that Corporal Jara leaning against the corral fence? Damn it all. The man wasn't looking his way, but Johnny weighed the risk of being seen, and kept walking.

Okay, so he wouldn't be able to get his gear just now. He should have left it hidden somewhere, like he usually did. But he had intended to guard ore shipments. He'd settled in. He sure hadn't planned on screwing everything up his first hour on the job.

He walked a block or two, thinking Then he saw some dirty boys in peasant clothes, the kind of kids he knew well. They headed into an alley and he followed them. The kids were rooting around in the garbage, calling each other names. When they saw him, the bigger kids knocked the smallest one down and hightailed it out of there. Johnny knew that not all that long ago he'd have been the one on the ground. Shaking his head, he helped the boy up.

"You looking to earn some money?" The boy wiggled harder to get out of his grasp. Johnny could have kicked himself when he saw the fear in the big brown eyes. "No, nothing like that. Look, I need someone to pinch something for me." He let go and flipped a coin to the boy, who caught the money and moved an arm's length away.

"You know the freight office? You ever notice a bunkhouse behind it?"

"Si."

"I left my gear in a bag under a bed there. Can you sneak in and get it for me?"

The boy's eyes narrowed. "How much?"

"Twenty five cents."

"Show it to me."

Johnny had to smile. He pulled out some coins for the kid to see. "You know where I mean?"

"Sure."

"Okay. Now. You got a name?"

"Gustavo." There was nothing but suspicion on the boy's face.

"Well, Gustavo, it's under the first bed to the right when you go in the door. Grab it and bring it back." He tried to make a hard face. "Deal?"

"Deal," the kid said, and took off. Johnny grabbed for him as he passed.

"Hey! Don't take anything else. And if you get caught I never saw you."

Johnny leaned against an adobe wall, taking care not to jar any of his sore spots, and waited. For the first time since he got to this town things felt familiar. He remembered his own days on the street, just after his mother died. Altar, it was. Where Altar was compared to Prieto he didn't know. Didn't matter much. Most border towns were the same. The Anglo side had all the money, the Mexican side had all the fun, and poor kids with nothing to eat and time on their hands caused trouble on both sides. They were alley cats, hotfooting it out of the way of the law, if there was any; the drunks̶—there were always plenty of them—and the outlaws. The big kids used the little kids as sacrificial lambs, just like here, but they worked together as pickpockets and shoplifters too. And they beat the living snot out of each other at the drop of a hat.

At the time he was living that way, he didn't know any different. Now he was following his gun to a different place, a place where he didn't have to worry about where his next meal was coming from.

Mostly. He snorted softly at the thought of losing everything, going back to square one like he'd done before he got to Prieto. Good to know he hadn't gotten rusty when it came to being a pickpocket. It was a nice skill to have; too bad there wasn't any future in it. He felt bad about taking the redheaded cowboy's money, though.

One foot braced against the wall behind him, Johnny leaned forward to look for Gustavo. The kid was running down the narrow street, panting. He skidded to a stop in front of Johnny, a burlap sack behind his back, and held out his hand.

"Slow down, slow down. How do I know you didn't steal me blind?" Johnny forced a scowl.

The boy scowled too. He looked back the way he came, so Johnny did too. There was nothing there. Gustavo shoved the sack at him and Johnny made a big deal out of feeling around inside it. There was his spare shirt, socks, shaving and gun cleaning kits, his copy of Don Quixote, and his sewing kit. His box of ammunition felt full. He dug deeper until his fingers found the pocket sewn into the bottom seam with his mama's ring inside it. Everything was there.

"Hey. Where's my gold watch?"

Gustavo's eyes grew bigger. He glanced back again. "I never took it!"

"You never took it? It's not in there."

"Maybe…maybe some other guy took it. I swear I didn't do it!"

When Johnny saw real tears forming in the kid's eyes he dropped the joke. "Hey, now, I'm just kidding. I never had a gold watch in the first place." Johnny smiled. The boy still looked like he wanted to cry; he was sidling away, but his hand was still out. Gustavo sure was jumpy. Johnny gave him fifty cents.

The kid lit out like his feet were on fire.

With a little grunt Johnny threw his sack over his shoulder and headed down the street. A visit to the bordello still sounded good.

Until two men in brown uniforms with yellow scarves blocked his way.

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

Part Six

One of the men leered at Johnny. The other was Corporal Jara.

"Figured you'd be too much of a coward to claim your own gear. We followed your boy." Jara's rat face grimaced, or was that a smile? "You're coming with us. Junior wants a word."

Jara made a move to take Johnny's gun. Johnny swung his bag with both hands. He hit Jara's head so hard he knocked him into the other soldier. When both men staggered Johnny stepped in with a sharp kick to Jara's balls. The corporal collapsed with a howl, but the other man regained his feet; he reached forward and squeezed Johnny in a bear hug that lifted him clean off his feet.

Johnny wriggled and struggled as the canvas-clad arms squeezed tighter. He couldn't reach his Colt. He couldn't breathe. Desperately he reared his head back and with everything he had slammed his forehead into the guy's nose. There was a satisfying crunch and the arms opened up. Johnny smashed the bloodied nose with his open palm. The big man went to his knees, shrieking, hands covering his face.

Ignoring the pain in his own head Johnny turned to see Corporal Jara groping for his pistol. In a smooth, well-practiced move, Johnny drew and fired. Half Jara's face blew away. The corporal collapsed like a rag doll, shot through his right eye at nearly point blank range.

Johnny looked away to keep from gagging. The other soldier still held his hands over his face, but he was trying to get up. Johnny kicked him hard in the shoulder to send him back down. He holstered his gun, pulled his knife from its sheath, and fumbled to cut the now-bloody yellow bandana from Jara's neck. He stuck it in his bag and got the hell out of the alley.

He'd earned the rest of his fee.

It wasn't long before the rush from the fight wore off, leaving him shaky and sore. He wanted to rest, but he knew it was time to collect his money and clear out before anyone figured out what he had done.

There was no sign of Lester in the cantinas or saloons, so Johnny headed for the mine. Walking due west, squinting against the glare of the setting sun, his eyes started to water. He was glad when the sun sank behind the foothills.

At the locked gates of the mine entrance a group of hard-faced miners blocked the way, arms crossed. They stared at him until one recognized him from the morning.

"Johnny Madrid! Good to see you up and around. How you feeling?"

The other men smiled and the mood lightened. He tried to smile back. "Hey, where can I find Lester? Is he in there?" He pointed his thumb at the wooden building closest to the gates.

Several miners nodded.

"Can I just go in?" Johnny didn't wait for an answer. He stepped up on the wooden stair and opened the door.

Lester, hatless and with armbands holding his sleeves up, wasn't alone. He leaned forward on his desk, head in his hands, as Senor Bartholomew raged at him.

"It is a reckless thing to do, Señor. You promised us a peaceful protest. The _soldados_ will be angry and will avenge the death of one of their…"

He stopped as Johnny came in and pulled the door shut behind him. Lester looked up in surprise.

"What are you doing here?"

Johnny flicked his eyes to the other man.

"It's okay. We were just discussing…" Lester trailed off.

Johnny nodded at Bartholomew. Then he tossed Jara's bandana on Lester's desk. "It's done."

Lester's eyebrows arched up. "Done? Already?"

Bartholomew gasped. "Jara is dead? By your hand?"

"I can't…." Lester looked pale. "Just like that? You're sure?"

Johnny snorted. "I'm sure."

"Did anyone see you?"

"He had another man with him."

"Did you kill him, too?" Bartholomew's nostrils flared.

Johnny looked him up and down. "No one was paying me to kill the second man."

Bartholomew shook his head and turned to Lester. "When the rest of the soldiers arrive they will surely turn their weapons on us. We must end this action and go back to work or many more will die."

"No." Lester slammed his hand on the desk. "We've come this far. If we fold now we'll never get another chance."

"Bah!" Bartholomew's lip curled. He pointed a finger at Johnny. "They intended this boy to kill you. Then Jara would kill him so the miners would feel grateful justice was done."

Lester stared at Bartholomew. "You know this how?"

The older man shrugged. "The same way I know more soldiers are coming. We have spies, they have spies…"

"Spies?"

"My sister's daughter cooks for the Butterick household. They think she doesn't understand English. The gringos are very angry their plan was foiled."

Johnny worked hard to keep his expression flat, his breathing even. He'd been played. It was a set up all along. The assholes thought a half-breed kid with a gun would shoot somebody in the back if they told him to. Well, Johnny Madrid wouldn't. Junior's plan hadn't worked, had it? Good thing, too.

Lester rubbed his face with his hands. He blew out a bunch of air and looked over Johnny's head, his attention far away. Bartholomew opened his mouth to say something else, thought the better of it, and turned away.

Both men were upset, but Johnny had done what he'd been hired to do.

"Uh, Mr. Lester, we agreed on twenty-five dollars."

Lester's face sagged. With a sigh he got up from his chair to kneel in front of the floor safe. The lock gave him a little trouble, but he opened the door and pulled out a leather bag. He counted out some banknotes, put the bag back, and closed the safe. Bartholomew watched, jaw clenched, as Lester handed Johnny the money.

"Thanks." Johnny folded the bills and stashed them in his jacket pocket. "A pleasure doin' business with you, Mr. Lester." Lester didn't answer. He looked defeated. Johnny didn't have a word for the look on Bartholomew's face.

Johnny couldn't get out of there fast enough.

Funny. He was more upset by the Buttericks' arrogance than the knowledge they intended to kill him. He knew his life was cheap, always had known it. But he'd outsmarted them. Didn't know it at the time, but he outsmarted them just the same.

Now something was about to explode and he didn't want any part of it. It was none of his business. He'd done his job—thirty-five dollars total for shooting a man who was a piece of shit anyway.

It almost made up for the beatings.

Thirty-five bucks! He wasn't so tired after all. His aches and pains didn't trouble him anymore. He should make tracks out of Prieto, but maybe he would celebrate being alive and having money first. In the hour or so of daylight left, should he find the nearest bordello, or go get that chestnut gelding? At the bordello he could buy himself all the fun he could stand. But if he bought a horse he could ride out of town like a real pistolero. Wouldn't that be sweet?

Moving through town Johnny kept a sharp eye on every man he passed. To his relief no brown canvas uniforms or mustachioed men crossed his path. It was nearly closing time when he got to the livery, but the man was happy to make a deal. They agreed on a price for the skinny chestnut and some worn out tack. Johnny paid extra to have the horse stabled there until he was ready to ride out. With a final pat to the horse's neck he set out for the bawdy house he'd passed on his way. He wouldn't stay long, but hell, he had the money and a little bit of time. It was worth the risk.

There was no way he meant to fall asleep. But here he was, on his back, trying to figure out what woke him. The windows of the bordello were covered in heavy drapes, but muffled sounds seeped into the tiny room. He thought he heard voices. The sound of trotting horses was unmistakable. The girl beside him was asleep. What time was it? It felt like the middle of the night. Shit—he needed to get out of town.

Johnny was on his feet, cleaning up and getting dressed, when the sound of glass shattering woke the girl,.

"¿Qué está pasando ahí fuera?" she mumbled, turning over and lighting the lamp. The light made it easier for Johnny to find his socks and shirt.

"No sé." He was at the door before the girl had her robe on. "¿Estamos en paz?"

She looked at him, brow furrowed. Her brown hair tangled its way down her face and her eyes were only half-open. Johnny smiled at her sleepiness, left more money on the dresser, and grabbed his bag. He was glad he only had to go down one flight; the stairwell smelled of piss and stale booze. The bordello fronted a few streets south of Camino del Este. He slipped out the door and headed through the night to the livery. The sounds that awakened him were louder now. Eerie lights flickered over the rooftops.

His horse was sleeping on his feet inside the barn. Johnny tacked him up and pulled him into the alley. An orange glow shone through the passage to Camino del Este. Men shouted; more glass splintered. Thuds and curses filled the night along with the sound of horseshoes ringing on the bricks in the square. The chestnut nickered at the horses in the distance as Johnny tied his bag over the saddle. Whatever was going on, he would head away from it.

Just as Johnny put his foot in the stirrup and hopped up, gunfire split the air. The startled chestnut shied and the stirrup broke off with Johnny's boot still in it. Foot and stirrup slammed on the ground as the horse took off, down the street toward Camino del Este.

"Hey! Get back here!" Johnny yanked the stirrup off his foot and threw it hard against the nearest wall. Then he picked it up again and set off after the damned horse.

The gelding headed toward Camino del Este, where the other horses were. At the edge of the bricks Johnny stopped dead and tried to make sense of what he saw. The square was filled with men running toward the fountain. They carried burning torches, flames slashing through the darkness, their faces twisted with anger and fear.

A knot of men at the end of the square threw rocks and bottles at horses. The riders in brown canvas uniforms reined their horses into a tight bunch; their pistols spit bullets in front of the crowd.

Johnny had never seen a riot, but he was pretty sure this was one. How would he find his horse in the darkness and confusion?

Someone screamed "Stop!"

Johnny recognized the voice. It was Lester, and his shout didn't change a thing. No one stopped anything.

If Lester was here, the men on foot had to be miners. They moved forward despite Lester's shout. Maybe he had shouted at the guards. It didn't matter. The guards fired in front of the advancing miners. A group of them ran head long toward the horses, jabbing them with sticks, cutting them with knives. Horses screamed. Their riders quit shooting the ground and started killing men.

Johnny kept looking for Lester, but he couldn't find him among the running men, horses, gunfire, and smoke. He thought he caught a glimpse of a chestnut gelding but by now there were several rider-less horses in the square. He couldn't be sure.

He ducked into a doorway when more soldiers arrived in a clatter of shod hooves. They spurred their horses into the thick of the fight. The riders used their rifles as clubs on the miners below them. The miners retaliated with picks, shovels, bricks, whatever came to hand. A man with a blazing torch ran toward Johnny, screaming words Johnny couldn't make out. His wild eyes met Johnny's as a rock hit him in the back. When he fell his skull cracked like an egg on the pavement.

The battle surged in Johnny's direction, and he crouched low. Between the security guards and the newly arrived soldiers the miners were boxed in. So was he. Horses and men shrieked. Furious gunfire came from every direction. Johnny couldn't see through the suffocating gun smoke. Bullets whizzed by taking his breath with them. He wrapped his arms around his head, dreading being found by a stray slug.

After forever the shooting stopped.

It all stopped at once and the silence was so thick he thought he might be deaf.

He lifted his head at the jingling of horses' bits; the soldiers were moving out. He unfolded from his crouch as they trotted past, some of them laughing. He was on his feet when the smoke cleared enough to watch them disappear in the distance. There were shouts, but they seemed far away. Shaking, he stared at the stirrup in his hand; he'd forgotten about his horse.

He turned back to the square. Dying torches lit the bricks, but their light disappeared into dark shapes that used to be men and horses. Ghostly figures moved in from the edges of the street. His heart beat faster until they were closer and he saw they were women. They dropped to their knees at men who moved. They helped them up, supporting them through swirls of smoke out of the square. A woman folded, keening, over the body of a man past saving.

Johnny walked past sputtering torches, looking at holes in the animal pictures where miners had dug up bricks to throw. The holes were bleeding.

He kept his head down and looked for Lester, hoping he wouldn't find him. His boot slid in a pool of blood, and he nearly fell on a younger man flat on his back, legs bent under him at impossible angles. It could have been the guy he'd stolen the thirteen dollars from. It could have been anyone.

Half his face was missing.

Johnny turned around and started walking. He quit looking for Lester. He didn't pay attention to where he went. He needed to keep moving, to get away from the bodies and the blood and the faces shot half away.

The old Mexican in Lester's office said this would happen, didn't he? Bartholomew said the soldiers would retaliate if Jara was killed.

But by the time he said that, it was too late. The job was done.

Johnny walked alone through Prieto. The sky was less black but there was no hint of a sun rising on the horizon. He found himself back at the livery, and damned if that chestnut horse wasn't there too, waiting by the barn door, not a mark on him.

Johnny grabbed the reins, stashed the stirrup in his bag, and vaulted into the saddle without even trying to use the stirrup that wasn't there. He'd fix it later.

He turned the horse to the west and jogged him through the dark streets to the mine. There were no miners milling around, no guards. The only light shone around the door of Lester's office.

Señor Bartholomew was inside, his eyes red as he sat in Lester's desk chair. When Johnny came in he looked up at him and sighed loudly.

"Were you there?" Johnny's voice scratched his throat. "Did you see it?" He wiped his hand over his eyes and thought of blood.

"Señor Lester went. He hasn't come back, and I don't think he will."

Johnny fixed him with a stare. "Was it because I killed Jara?"

Bartholomew shook his head before he answered. "We had heard more soldiers were coming. We didn't know they were already here." He sighed again. "We know what's going to happen and it happens anyway."

His smile was even sadder than his eyes. "The strike is over. Those who live will go back to work, and Butterick will hire new men to replace those who died. Widows and children will suffer, and life will go on as it always does."

Johnny straightened up and took a deep breath. "Is there anything I can do?"

"Haven't you done enough?"

For a long second Johnny stared at the old man. He should be madder than hell at that remark. Why wasn't he? It didn't matter. He turned on his heel and walked away.

The riot wasn't his fault.

The miners' deaths weren't his doing.

He had done the job he'd been paid to do, and he was leaving Prieto on a horse like the professional gun fighter he was.

He hoped his papa would understand.

End


End file.
